


Three Ghosts Inn

by Mistress_Siana



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Light Bondage, Light Femdom, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 17:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19255453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_Siana/pseuds/Mistress_Siana
Summary: Arya and the Hound get stuck in a haunted wayside inn thanks to bad weather. Knowing they’re going to their doom makes them reckless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the scene in “Beyond the Wall” where Sandor remarks to Gendry that getting stripped down and tied to a bed sounds good to him. I decided to let him have his wish.

**Three Ghosts Inn**

 

Two days past Moat Cailin, the wind changes from north to west, and warmer, wetter air from the Sunset Sea turns snow to sleet, then to rain. The last time he rode this way, winter was coming hard for Westeros, but the air has lost its bite. He glances at the girl riding beside him and wonders if her sticking her dagger in the Night King's frozen guts has anything to do with it. Strange girl, she is.

He expected to run into a few Lannister soldiers and a Frey or two, but in the end, it's the fucking rain that drives them off the Kingsroad. The constant downpour softens the earth and sends mudflows down the hillsides, forcing them to seek higher ground, soaked to the bone until he is too miserable even to curse. The air smells of rotting leaves and old moss, instilled with the sour bite of the peat swamp forests just south of the Neck. In the distance, the Green Fork hisses and gurgles, threatening to rise from his bed.

They abandon their plan to make it to the Trident before nighttime. There’s a little wayside inn, so overgrown with ivy it nearly blends into the forest, with the distinct smell of peat smoke coming from a chimney. Gregor and Cersei can wait one more day. The rain battering his face is so heavy he struggles to keep his eyes open, and right now he wants a dry place almost as much as he wants revenge.

-

The inn smells of mildew and leek, some warm broth cooking over a fire somewhere. A grizzled old man, barely taller than Arya and just as scrawny, emerges from the kitchen. His right hand is missing three fingers and his left eye is a misty grey.

“I have no money,” he grunts, “and there are no women here.” His eyes dart towards the kitchen door, and Sandor guesses that at least one of those things is a lie.

Before he can answer, Arya takes a step forward.

“We’re no robbers. We need a place for tonight and some food, if you have it. We can pay.”

The man smiles, tension leaving his face the moment he sees her. Sandor smirks, watching Arya from the corner of his eye. Word of her deeds will travel, he thinks, and then the world will learn to fear little girls.

“For five silver stags,” the innkeeper says cheerfully, “you’ll get a bed, soup, bread, ale, and no less than three ghosts.” He points to a painted wooded sign over the fireplace that reads _Three Ghosts Inn._ “The beds and the bread are mouldy, but the ghosts are as fresh as they come.”

He wants to object to the five stags, but Arya is quicker and accepts. Bloody highborns, he thinks. Ale, however, does sound good.

The innkeep calls for a Della or Darla or some shite, and soon enough a freckled, gap-toothed girl of maybe thirteen pokes her heads through the kitchen door.

“Knew he was lying,” Sandor hisses under his breath as the girl shows them their quarters for the night.

-

Their rooms barely deserve the name; two crates the size of horse stalls, right above the stables, each with an ancient-looking straw mattress in a plain, wooden bed frame. He imagines making camp outside in this weather, and suddenly the bed looks fit for a king. He grunts at Della or Darla to fetch him a bucket of hot water to wash himself, and when she returns, he’s pleased to find it properly steaming. He manages to wash most of the crusted mud off his face and out of his hair, and once he’s dressed in a mostly dry set of clothes, he goes back down to find that leek stew.

Arya’s already there - naturally, he thinks, no chance of him getting a moment to himself. Still, he’s had worse company, that much he’s willing to admit.

Della or Darla brings them them each a bowl of stew and a horn full of sweet, golden ale.

“Thanks, Dallia,” Arya says softly. Dallia then, fuck it. The girl gives them a toothy smile.

Arya points at the sign above the fireplace. “Tell me about the ghosts.”

Dallia chews on her bottom lip. Outside, the wind has picked up, howling through the inn’s old roof, rain battering the wood.

“I only know about two of them, m’lady”, the girl says, “grandfather says the third one’s tale’s too bloody. I’m too young to hear it.”

He remembers Arya at her age, driving her sword through Polliver’s throat with a smile.

“The first two were lovers,” Dallia continues, talking way too fast, her eyes wide, excited that someone’s shown an interest in her ramblings. “A fisherman and a noble lord’s daughter. They’ve been here for a long time, hundreds of years. The inn that stood right here back then burned down, but you can’t burn down ghosts, can you?”

“Lucky fuckers,” Sandor hisses.

“One day, the noble lord came this way with his only daughter. A Tully, might have been. They were crossing the river but the tides were strong, always are come springtime. The daughter fell overboard and the currents swept her aways, but a young fisherman jumped in the river and saved her. Could swim like a fish, he could. They fell in love right there by the riverbank and she gave him her maidenhead that night. She confessed to her lord father come morning, asked him to make the fisherman a lordling for saving her so she could marry him. But the lord was angry. He hanged the poor fisherman right here in the stables, for defiling his daughter. Told the girl he’d give her to the Silent Sisters if she told anyone. Poor thing drowned herself in the river, she did."

She chews on her dirty thumbnail with her massive front teeth.

"Saw their ghosts myself. Him down by the river, her in the stable. They've been trying to find each other all this time.”

“Highborn cunts”, he mutters, and Arya gives him a good kick under the table.

They eat in silence. He’s starving, attacking his meagre leeks like an enemy on the battlefield, and surely Arya must be too, but she seems lost in thought, mulling over ghosts of her own.

Once he’s finished his meal, her eyes find him.

“I heard Rhaegar Targaryen knighted your brother at the tourney at Harrenhal. Where you there?”

“Aye. That was ages ago. Why do you care?”

“What was he like? Rhaegar?”

“Like all the high and mighty Lords and then some. Like the new dragon queen without the tits. What’s he matter to you now?”

“He met my aunt Lyanna there. Father always said I reminded him of her.”

“Might be. That one was wearing a dress, though, when Rhaegar put the crown in her lap. You’d probably bite the head off anyone who tried to put you in one.”

She glowers at him from across the table.

“I’ve worn dresses. I’ve killed lots of people while wearing dresses.”

He gives her a rumbling laugh.

“Bet you did, wolf girl.” He remembers Harrenhal, in spite of how young he was. He watched, brooding, as Gregor was anointed with the oils of the Seven. It was then that he first made his vow to never be a knight.

He scratches his beard, lost in thought.

“After that tourney,” he continues, “Gregor hated Rhaegar every bit as much as Robert Baratheon did.”

“Why?”

“He drew against him in the first round. But you can’t have the likes of Gregor knocking mighty princelings off their horses, can you? He had to miss, throw himself in the dirt, and thank Rhaegar for the pleasure.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That’s it. Didn’t say he had a good reason, did I?”

“I don’t think I’m like Lyanna at all. I don’t like princes who pretend to win tourneys.”

She gives him a queer look saying this, like there’s something else she can’t bring herself to say. She can hold his gaze for longer than most people, always has, and now it seems ages before she looks away. Wordlessly, she rises from her bench and fetches both of them more ale.

-

They drink in silence. When he goes outside for a piss, he comes back to find his horn refilled, but he’d never question free ale when it comes his way. When it’s gone, his eyelids are starting to grow heavy. He can feel the day’s ride in his bones and rises, somewhat unstably, to go find his shitty bed and sleep. Arya pursues, and he notices a beat too late she’s walked past her own door and followed him to his room.

He looks down at her. There she is, standing barely taller than his elbow, giving him a look like he’s some handsome lordling from her sister’s old storybooks.

“We’re probably gonna die in King’s Landing.” She shrugs. “Might as well.”

He intends to laugh, but it comes out as mostly a growl. “I thought it was that blacksmith son of a whore you were after. The new Lord Baratheon.”

“And you’re after my sister. I don’t care, I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.”

He doesn’t remember making the decision to let her in, but there he is, holding the door for her and closing it behind her.

“I wasn’t after her. Not like that. I was just trying to protect her. You Stark girls are always in trouble.”

She cocks an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing around the corner of her mouth.

“If she were here right now, taking her dress off for you, would you stop her?”

He pauses. “No,” he says finally.

Her eyes are gleaming. With one hand, she opens her sword belt and unlaces her doublet.

“Well, she’s not here, and neither is Gendry. We might never seen them again. _We’re_ here.”

“You’re a gloomy bitch”, he says. He lets her come closer, though. Let’s see what she’s gonna do. He’ll not touch her unless she touches him first.

She’s standing close to him, hands locked behind her back, smiling.

“Sit down,” she says in that low voice of hers, nodding towards the bed.

He laughs, properly this time. He’s never had a woman give him orders before. Never had a woman who wasn’t scared of him, really, just some who got off on a bit of fear. She’s holding his gaze, smiling that creepy little smile she didn’t use to have before, back when they were first on the road together. He nods once and, slowly, sits down on his bed.

Her face lights up. She’s surprised it worked, he thinks. It occurs to him that this might be a new thing for her, too.

“Take your clothes off. ”Her voice is barely more than a whisper now. He thinks he can hear a trace of excitement in it.

“You’re a crazy bitch, you know that? I like that in you.” It’s the closest he’s come to paying anyone a compliment in a long time, and he means it.

He does as he’s bid: he removes his heavy surcoat, mail, plate, and sword belt.

“Go on,” she says.

He starts working on his boots, then slips out of his breeches. Her eyes dart towards the long, angry scar on his thigh where the bone came through. 

When only his shift is left, it starts to feels strange. She’s fully dressed and watching him, and try as he might, he cannot read her. He’s well aware that his might be a set up, but for what purpose? If she wants him dead, she’s had plenty of opportunity. Might be she wants to see him suffer; he’s seen her play with prey before. If that’s it, so be it. He’s not afraid of pain; wouldn’t be going to King’s Landing if he was. He simply can’t imagine what she sees in him that she wants. He’s had women try and sweet-talk him before, looking for a bit of rough. He wouldn’t have had Arya down as the type, though - never thought of her that way at all, until half a heartbeat ago.

She’s noticed his hesitation, it seems. She comes a few steps closer and begins to unlace her doublet. She allows him to watch her undress - she moves with animal grace, he thinks, but he’s sure he saw her hand shake just a little there, giving her nerves away. And then she’s standing before him, fully bare. His eyes follow the curve of her body, taking in the map of scars and bruises, old cuts and new stitches. Every one a story; a loss or a triumph. He finds her more beautiful than any ivory-skinned maiden could ever be; never occurred to him, he realises, to think of scars this way.

He’s getting old. Old and tired and sentimental.

“Your shift,” she says.

With a crooked smile, he unfastens the rough-spun laces and pulls the shift off his back.

He’s desperate to touch her but that dumb code of honour that occasionally asserts itself in the back of his mind tells him she must touch him first. As if on cue, she obliges, places one hand on his shoulder, traces the curve of his neck to where he wouldn’t let her burn off the bad skin. The scar there has nearly faded to white; another story, another ghost. She runs her fingers up his neck and through his hair, and out of pure instinct, he tilts his head to meet her touch.

She places her other hand on his chest: not just her hand, he thinks; she’s holding something. The belt she removed earlier. He smirks.

“Of course that’s what you’re into.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He shakes his head with amusement.

“Do what you like, girl.”

A grin spreads across her face. She takes another step closer, her knee pushing gently between his legs. It’s already more than enough to make him hard.

“Lie down.”

It suddenly occurs to him how much her voice has changed over the years; it’s so much deeper now, almost sultry, with a hint of menace that goes straight to his head. He lets himself fall back onto the straw mattress, and she’s on top of him in an instant. She grabs his wrists, pulls his arms up above his head and ties his hands to the bed frame in one quick move. It’s a good belt, he thinks, and tied expertly. He would be strong enough to free himself, but no quicker than she could put her Needle through his throat, if she wanted to. She’s straddling his chest, looking at her work with just a hint of a smile. If she has an elaborate death planned for him, now is when he finds out, he supposes. _Go on, wolf girl, do your worst._ Instead, she bends down to kiss him.

 

She’s not a timid kisser, this one. She’s used to taking what she wants, he thinks, whether that's a life or a kiss. He can taste the ale on her, can feel her nails on his chest, her teeth on his lips, her breath hot on his skin. He arches into the sensation, into her, the belt holding. His chest brushes against hers and his cock jumps at the sensation.

She pulls back, giving him a look that says “liked that, didn’t you?” The need to touch her is killing him. The restraints are torture all right, and in a weird and twisted way, he loves it. She grins at him, firelight dancing on her face. He thinks he can feel the tips of her hair tickle his collarbone, and even that is exhilarating.

She’s hesitating. For a moment, she seems like a cat who’s caught its tail and doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s pretty sure now she hasn’t done a lot of this before.

His growls her name. “This is wrong,” he hisses, fully aware there’s no hiding how much he wants her.

“Why?”

Because she’s a fucking Stark, gods be damned. Because she’s half his size and because he’s known her half her life, from back when she was a little girl with a too big helmet, watching the king ride for Winterfell. He’d deserve to hang from a crossbeam in a shitty wayside inn for touching her, like that ghost from Dallia’s story.

He doesn’t say any of this. Her eyes still fixed on his, she moves further down his body, until his cock is between her legs. He groans and tears at his restraints, leather digging into his flesh. He closes his eyes and focuses on feeling her, the warmth of her thighs, the wetness between her legs. Her hands trail down his chest and stomach and linger in the hollow of his hips, and for a moment, he thinks he can feel her heartbeat in her fingertips. _Fuck; a sword through the heart might be easier._

When she takes his cock into her hand, he observes how ridiculously small her hands are and simultaneously remembers those hands have a body-count no smaller than his own. He finds the thought weirdly arousing.

“Do you like this?” Her voice is low, a little out of breath, and there’s an innocence to her question that moves him beyond words. She’s so bloody young, gods be damned. He fears his voice will fail him, so he just nods. She pushes her hips forward and rubs herself against his length, slowly at first, but she soon settles into a rhythm. He takes note in case she ever lets him touch her and allows himself to imagine running his fingers through the soft curls between her legs. She shifts on top of him, and before he even realises it, she’s guiding him inside of her.

The stubborn code tells him no, he mustn’t let her. Another part in him, the part that made him turn his back on the Blackwater, that brought him back from the brink of death a dozen times, the part that knows he’s a fucking dead man walking … that part wants to feel alive, for a little bit, in the week or so he has left before he faces Gregor and walks away broken or not at all.

It takes all the strength he has not to move his hips and push into her. She lowers herself onto him, slowly, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, looking feral and small and wanton and breathtaking all at the same time. He realises he’s watching her letting her guards down, her carefully sculptured facade slipping away. There’s a hunger in her and a sadness, too, and he’s fought too many battles not to recognise the feeling. There’s an emptiness that comes when the thrill of killing people goes away - some seek to fill it with whores, some with wine, some cocksuckers with piety, but he’s traveled all over Westeros and not found a single fucking thing that works. He studies her with sadness; he’d give her anything she wants and already knows it won’t be enough.

She’s biting her lips, fucking him, fucking herself on him, digging her nails into his sides. He hopes it scars; a happy memory for the scrapbook that is his body.

He’s close to peaking when she stops moving. She regards him solemnly for a moment, places a brief kiss on his lips, then lifts herself off his body, leaving every inch of him screaming for release. He watches in despair as she leans forward and unfastens the belt.

He sits up with a start, throwing her back into his lap. Freedom is dreadful, he finds. He was inside her just a moment ago, but he hasn’t touched her yet, and there’s still this part of him that says he shouldn’t. He places one hand lightly in the curve of her neck, his fingers ghosting across her collarbone, barely allowing himself to feel her. She tilts her head, caressing his hand with her cheek, and plants a soft kiss on his knuckles.

“Fuck,” he growls into her hair, then takes her head in both hands and kisses her with utter despair. He could lose himself in just her hair, he thinks, as she reaches for his cock and guides him back inside her.

He wants to flip her over, drive into her hard, half mad with need, but he stops himself. He couldn’t forgive himself if he hurt her. So he lets her move, set her pace, take her pleasure. He wraps his arms around her slender frame, her waist and her shoulder, burying his face in her neck. He feels her breath become ragged, then her rhythm, and when he feels her shudder against him, he comes undone.

-

They remain still for a while, wrapped in each other, for a minute or an eternity, he couldn’t say. Still half-hard inside her, he listens to her breathing, playing with the tips of her hair.

“Can I sleep here?” she asks, suddenly. He laughs and can feel the sound of it reverberate in her body. He takes her head in his hands and places a kiss on her forehead, as gently as he can manage.

“Stupid question,” he wants to say, but there’s something in her eyes that catches him off guard, and all he does is nod.

-

He briefly drifts off to sleep. A dream begins to form, the ruins of Harrenhal, the tattered banners of the houses that came and went; Targaryen, Whent, Baratheon. The picture fades as quickly as it appeared and he’s awake again. He can’t sleep when he’s being watched, and he can feel her eyes on him without opening his own.

“You never sleep, girl. In all the time that I’ve known you, you’re awake half the night and staring into the darkness. It’s disturbing.“

When she doesn’t answer, he opens his eyes. Her face is just inches away on from his, and it’s unsettling how tired she looks. He cups her face with his large hand, thumb brushing over her cheekbone.

“How do you sleep when …?” She doesn’t finish the sentence but the answer remains the same in any case.

“Wine. Or ale. I don’t like rum; that shit’s too sweet.” He moves his hand to the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair. He regards her carefully for a long time. He’s beginning to understand there’s a price for saving the world and she paid it. He thinks of Brother Ray and the sept they were building, wonders what gods would punish her and for what.

“What are you doing here, girl? Here, with me.” He isn’t quite sure why he’s asking her this now, but he has to know.

She breaks eye contact and stares past him into the darkness, silent for a while.

"Let me show you something", she says finally and rolls out of bed.

She grabs a shift off the floor — his — and throws it on. She could make a tent out of it, he thinks, smiling to himself. It falls past her knees and she has to hold it up to stop it from slipping off her shoulders. "It'll only be a moment."

She slips out of the room, barefoot and light as a thief, and returns shortly after with a weathered leather bag. She places it on the floor, close to the firelight, and he pulls himself up so he can see. When she opens the flap, he's not sure what he's seeing at first. It could be masks, white leathery human masks. He heaves himself out of bed and joins her on the floor to get a better look at the strange objects. From closer up, he realises they can only be made from human skin.

"These are my faces." Her voice is low but twisted with a hint of excitement; a strange, morbid sort of pride. She surveys the formless scrap of flesh on the floor with something akin to affection, idly caressing the leather of her bag. "I was training with the Faceless Men in Braavos. They taught me how to use them."

A few years back, he’d have laughed at her and called the Faceless Men a fairytale, but since then, he’s killed a man and seen him walk again, seen a dragon fall from the sky and rise again breathing ice, brought a wight to the queen he deserted, and fought death itself for dominion over the world.

"How?" he asks, simply.

"When someone dies, you take their face. Then you become them. You can speak in their voices, move with their bodies." Her eyes find his. "I could become you, if I wanted to."

He laughs. "Wouldn't recommend it, girl. You'd get tired of my face; gods know I am."

She cocks an eyebrow and gives him a crooked little half-smile. “I killed Meryn Trant with one of these on. In a brothel in Braavos. Put a dagger through both his ugly eyes.“

He can tell she wants him to feel impressed. It’s working.

“He had it coming. Rat-faced cunt.”

They sit on the floor in silence until the wild gleam fades from her eyes and her face becomes softer, tinged with sadness.

“Gendry asked me to marry him. What do you think he'd say if I showed these to him?”

He studies the eerie scrap of human skin that strangely seems to hold its form, as though some arcane magic flowed through its veins instead of blood.

"He'd shit himself,” he says.

Most people would. He remembers the question he asked before she went to fetch her faces and thinks he just got his answer there. One gets tired of scaring people. Who'd know this better than he does? He doesn’t ask what answer she gave the new Lord Baratheon; he already knows.

Sitting there in the too-large shift, she looks tired beyond measure. Outside, the rain has picked up again, beating tirelessly against the old wooden walls.

“Let’s get some sleep,” he says. They have a long way to go.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s no going anywhere the next day. The Green Fork has swollen and flooded the Kingsroad with a foot of brackish water, only brown reeds and meagre tree stumps marking where the riverbank should be. Its northern tributaries have followed suit, washing streams of mud and rubble down the hills. They have no hope of making it to the Crossroads Inn before nightfall, no guarantee of finding shelter elsewhere, and making camp would be dangerous with the waters still rising.

“I have some goats up the hill,” the innkeep says as he places their morning porridge on the table,’’I’ll give you free lodging for the night if you bring them back to the stable.”

So they make themselves useful. Arya rides her horse up the hill pass while he walks, afraid his heavier stallion will get stuck in the sodden ground. Halfway back down with two dozen goats in tow, Arya’s mare slips and falls on her flank, throwing Arya face-first into the mud. He laughs so hard his belly hurts until Arya grabs a fistful of mud and slings it right in his face.

“Bitch,” he growls and retaliates in kind, but she’s quicker than him, ducks, and he misses. He remembers her whirling around with that tiny blade of hers, years ago in the mountains of the Vale, back when the Meryn Trants of this world were still safe from her.

“You still practise with your Needle?” he asks. When she nods, he grins and draws his sword. “Go on then, I beat your scrawny arse last time. Show me what you’ve learned since then.”

In the end, they’re down a goat. The herd set off in panic around the time he sent Needle flying from her hand just to find a dagger at his throat a beat later. They spend the better part of the morning chasing frightened animals through the incessant downpour, but the last one remains missing. He’s bloody impressed with her fighting, however, and admits it grudgingly.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” she says. “Lasted longer than the Night King.” She grins, just as another fistful of mud lands on her nose.

“Pride comes before the fall.”

They decide to give up on the last missing animal and make their way back to the inn lest a mudslide drown them both, swords and goats and all.

Later, when they’re drying their clothes beside the peat fire, a large, warm cup of mead for each, he gives her a long, serious look.

“What?” she asks.

“Waterdancing still sounds fucking dumb,” he growls, “just so you know.”

-

The innkeep himself brings their food that night, salted meat that is probably too old, and explains that Dallia has a fever. Sandor inadvertently remembers the Riverlands farmer he robbed and his daughter, fuck knows why.

“She told us about the lord’s daughter and the fisherman,” Arya says. “What about the third ghost?”

Sandor rolls his eyes. You’d think she was Sansa with her love of stories.

“It’s a sad tale,” the old man says, rubbing at his blind eye with his sleeve. “They called her Lyla of Honeytree, from House Bracken or Blackwood, who knows, they’re always fighting over who owns what, aren’t they?”

“Bracken,” Sandor murmurs. The innkeep doesn’t appear to have heard him, but he can see Arya’s head turn towards him from the corner of his eye. Under the table, his hands are clenched to fists.

“She was no one important anyway,” the old man continues, “a third daughter of a third son, something like that. They said she made the best honey in town. Then the war came, and they married her off to a Lannister bannerman, castellan of Harrenhal he was. Beast of a man - taller than you even, or so they say.” He points his mangled finger at Sandor.

“She ran, her own wedding night, she ran, while he was sleeping off his wine. Had only her smallclothes, poor thing. Got out and stole a horse, somehow. I don’t know how she did it, maybe someone took pity on her, but they say he had every guard on duty that night boiled alive for letting her escape.

He tracked her down, of cause. Dragged her in through this door here, he carried her under one arm like a rag doll, bleeding and crying she was, only barely alive then. He demanded the cook bring him a barrel of honey. Drowned her in it while everyone watched.”

He leaves a long pause, staring at the door wide-eyed, like he expects Gregor to storm in and rip his tongue out for snitching.

“I watched, too,” he continues, finally. “No one dared stop him, a beast like that. We buried the girl by the river, my late son and I. Dellia’s father, gods bless him. She’s been seen haunting the bedrooms, poor Lyla has. They say her face is is dripping with honey and blood.”

He looks around the damp, old place with something akin to fondness in his eyes.

“This used to be called The Fisherman’s Ghost, but we thought we’d do her the honour.”

 -

“Did you know her?” Arya asks when the old man has returned to the kitchen.

“Only her name. I heard the announcement of their betrothal, that’s all.” She regards him quietly, with a look that could be anything from pity to disgust. Somehow, this look from her always makes him talk.

“I remember his first wife,” he rambles on, “frightened little thing. She was a ghost, too, she just hadn’t died yet. I offered to take her away somewhere, I didn’t know where. Essos, might be. I was only a boy myself. She was too afraid to leave, said he’d find us and kill us both, no matter where we went.”

“Did he kill her?”

“She died. Who’d have the guts to charge him?”

“My father did. He sent Lord Beric after him.”

“Aye, your father did. He had more balls than sense, Ned Stark. He might even have been stupid enough to fight Gregor himself to put him to justice. And your father would have had his head squashed to jelly like the bloody rest of them.”

What would Ned Stark say, he wonders, if he saw him fucking his youngest daughter.

For a while, they sit in silence.

“I saw him torture people,” she says in the end, her voice hushed but defiant. “At Harrenhal. Him and his men. Gendry and I, we were his prisoners before we escaped. That’s why he’s on my list.”

He can feel his pulse beat in the back of his throat with hollow anger. He should have killed Gregor years ago and spared the world some pain. He shakes his head.

“How in seven hells did you survive this long?” He supplies his own answer: “You’re a killer, that’s how.”

“Maybe. I’ve always had friends, too. A friend helped us escape Lord Tywin and your brother. Syrio Forell helped me escape the King’s Guard when they arrested father. Yoren from the Night’s Watch got me out of King’s Landing.”

She looks up and straight into his eyes. She doesn’t say what he knows she’s thinking, and he’s glad for it. He isn’t used to being called anyone’s friend; he wouldn’t know what to say.

She drains the ale from her horn. “Most of them are dead now,” she says, rising from her bench. She’s halfway out of the door before she stops and turns around.

“Try not to die. Please.”

-

He’s on his way back to his room, a wineskin in his hand to see him off to sleep, when he finds her sitting in front of her door.

“You again,” he growls.

“Me again.”

“You need any help sleeping?”

“I don’t like sleeping.” She rises to her feet quick as a cat. “But you can come in anyway.”

He follows her into her room. It looks identical to his but he feels like an intruder nonetheless. The memory of her naked body on top of him flashes in the back of his mind, his chest burning in shame while his cock twitches.

“Sit down,” she says, “I’ll take care of the fire.”

In spite of himself, he smiles.

He sits on the edge of her bed and half-drains the wine in one go, watching her add another log to the fire. As soon as she’s finished, she begins taking off her clothes —wastes no time, this one, he thinks, and follows suit.

When she steps closer, he hands her the wineskin. She removes the lid with her teeth, takes a long swig, then a brash smile spreads across her face. He gapes as she empties the rest of the wine onto her naked chest. Vixen. Her grabs her by the hips and pulls her close, his mouth catching the trickle of arbour-red in between her breasts. He follows the trail with his tongue, up to her collarbone, and kisses the hollow of her neck. He realises his fingers are digging into her hips so hard he’s going to leave bruises. He softens his grip, moving his hands up to her waist with as much gentleness as he can master.

“Best tie me down again, girl. I don’t know what I’ll do to you.” He’s used up all the self-control he possesses, he thinks.

“You can be rough, I don’t mind.”

He lets out a sound that’s half a laugh and half a plea for strength. Before he can speak, she shuts him up with a kiss, a raw and greedy thing that takes his breath away. She drops the empty wineskin and twines her hand behind his neck, pulling him close. He tightens his grip around her waist, palms grazing over scar tissue; three wounds he counts, and each one could have killed her. Should have killed her. How she lives, he doesn’t know. Suddenly, for the first time, he’s scared of what will happen when they reach King’s Landing. He considers his life forfeit, but she’s too young to run to her death. He returns her kiss with near-anguish, pulls her close, and they both tumble onto the bed together.

He’s on top of her in the bat of an eye. Her hips rise to meet him, and he allows himself to rub himself against her. His cock finds her entrance without effort, and he decides to torture himself, and her, by pushing half the tip into her, for just a second. Then he pulls out, drawing a small noise from the back of her throat. He kisses the side of her neck, stroking her hair.

“Not yet,” he growls. Her brows crinkle in frustration, and he laughs. “Have some patience, will you, girl?”

He permits himself to look at her, really look at her, to take in her curves, her skin and her scent. To the seventh hell with his code. She wants this. He wants it. They fought death itself to save the bloody world, the world has no damned business telling them what they can and cannot have. She’s a grown woman; if she wants to take her pleasure from a big old dog like him, so be it.

He makes his way down her body, kissing her collarbone, her breasts, her assortment of scars, explores the hollow of her hips and the inside of her thighs. He runs his fingers through her soft brown curls, finds her sweet spot and begins drawing little circles, listening with some fascination as her breath becomes jagged and shallow.

When he pushes her thighs apart, it feels rougher than he intended; he takes a deep breath to control himself. He bends down and tastes her, takes in her scent, her arousal, her wetness. She lifts her head from the bed with a gasp - this is a first for her, he guesses, and grins. He lets her little moans and hisses guide him, licking, sucking her in, making noise, feeling her sigh and breathe and get close. There's life pulsating in her, warmth, anticipation, her eyes are wide and wild, and he loves that he can make her look like this.

She runs a hand through his hair as she comes, almost as if by instinct, and it drives him wild. He moves up her body, kisses her, makes her taste herself, driving his arm under her shoulder and neck to pull her closer. He grunts her name, somehow; he doesn’t know how his voice doesn’t fail him. Wordlessly, she wraps her legs around him, and he thinks she might be trembling. She lifts her hands to his face, grabbing a fistful of hair, and presses her cheek to his.

“Fuck me,” she hisses into his ear.

For a beat, he remains still. Then, he tightens his grip around her shoulder and pulls her against him, pushing into her hard. He can feel her exhale, her breath hot on his skin, her fingertips digging into his scalp. He’s falling, he thinks. Falling forward into a darkness where he knows nothing but her fever-flushed skin and the taste of her lips.

He calls upon whatever strength he has left and finds her eyes. “Tell me if I hurt you.” His voice comes out hoarse and broken. He needs her to promise him this.

Her eyes are dark, firelight dancing across her brow, and her voice barely a whisper: “You won’t hurt me.”

The words hit him like a dagger through the heart. It seems a lifetime ago that he heard them, but the memory is clear as day. Did he fail Sansa? Did she fail him? Is he failing Arya now? He doesn’t know. His eyes are stinging, might be sweat, might be not; he buries his face in Arya’s hair so she won’t see.

Then he loses himself.

-

He’s lost track of how long they’ve been lying together in silence. The rain has stopped battering the tired old wood, but the wind is still howling through the trees, whistling in through the cracks in the wall and chilling their sweat-drenched bodies. He’s shifted his weight off her body to give her space to breathe, his arm still draped across her chest. Her eyes are closed, her breath deep and even, but he knows she isn’t sleeping.

“What are you gonna do after the war?” she asks, suddenly.

He growls into the sheet. “My bloody business. Why?”

“What’s west of Westeros?”

He lifts his head an inch off the mattress.

“Speak sense, girl.”

“I want to sail west. West of Westeros, where the maps stop. I want to get my own ship.”

He sees the gleam in her eyes, planning her adventure; it’s the closest to happy he’s seen her in all the years that he’s known her, and he doesn’t have it in him to say something all too mean.

“First you want a pony, now you want a boat. There’s no pleasing you,” he growls, not unkindly, and Arya pinches his arm as a reward.

He regards her solemnly for a long while. He got it wrong, he thinks. Got her wrong, damn it. The rage in her is gone and there’s curiosity and a sense of wonder that takes him by surprise. She can still walk away. He thanks whatever cunt-faced god is bored enough to listen and lifts himself up to place a gentle kiss on her forehead.

The look she gives him is an offer. Of what, exactly, remains to be seen, but he supposes he’d be of some use to her as a sellsword. Not that he’d say no to fucking, if that’s what she wants.

The truth is, it sounds tempting. But the truth is also that there is no after, not realistically, not for him.

Gregor is a death sentence, he knows this, although he can’t quite bring himself to say it. It’s what’s been stopping him all these years, he thinks; he may be a miserable old git but he still felt he had some living to do. But now that he’s fought the dead, what else is there? There’s one more undead fucker waiting for him in King’s Landing and that is that. Save the world once and for all from the terror that is Gregor Clegane, and free his brother from the miserable remains of his life.

She’s studying his face carefully, and he remembers again that she was never afraid to look at him, even when she was a girl. She must know, he thinks. She must know what he’s thinking. He wants to say something; that he’s sorry, that he’s proud of her, that he wishes her all the luck in the world, but he has no words.

He’s killed the childlike joy in her eyes, he notices. For a while, she quietly glares at him and it suddenly occurs to him again how small she is. Finally, she turns away from him, facing the wall, but she doesn’t protest when he wraps his arm around her waist.

-

He drifts off into an uneasy sleep, slipping in and out of dreams. Once, in the early hours, the fire hisses and spits and when he turns around startled, he thinks he can see Lyla of Honeytree standing by the bedside, her face dripping with honey and blood. He blinks once, and she is gone.

Arya is still next to him, asleep for once. He trails his fingers down her back, drawing a map, the outline of Westeros, with a kiss where his childhood home would be. He remembers the view out to sea from the top of the keep, the black schooners going to the Wall, the magnificent Qartheen four-masters, carrying saffron to the Westerlands that only Lord Tywin could afford. He remembers the western winds and their peculiar smell of salt and winter storms, the vast green sea where no ships would go, the boys throwing stones from the shores aiming for the edge of the world. He tries to imagine a different life, one where he boards a ship and sails into the Sunset Sea, out of Lannisport or Oldtown maybe, to stay south of the storms. One where he leaves Gregor to some Dothraki to earn himself a braid, or to one of the dragons to choke on Gregor’s undead flesh and spit out his bones in the Kingswood. He tries, maybe harder than he’s ever tried anything, to choose an alternative life, but Gregor wins. Gregor always does.

-

Outside, the rain has died down to a fine spray. The early morning air is cool and dry like back in the Year of the False Spring, when Gregor became a knight and Rhaegar Targaryen doomed his house for a girl from the north. The first rays of light fall on the Mountains of the Moon, painting the peaks that rise above the mist a soft, pallid gold. Grudgingly, the Green Fork retreats to his bed and gives the Kingsroad back to the people. Today, they will follow it down to the Crossroads Inn, then across the Trident, past Harrenhal and its ghosts, and then on to King’s Landing, where he means to die.


End file.
